


Eat Me, Drink Me

by KiraH69



Category: Criminal Minds, Hannibal (TV), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Bruises, Cannibalism, Case Fic, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Daddy Kink, First Time, Graphic Description of Corpses, Homosexuality, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Minor Violence, Multiple Crossovers, Office Sex, Plot, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-17 22:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9348569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiraH69/pseuds/KiraH69
Summary: Hotch loves Reid's mane, and when one day he comes to work with short hair, Hotch has to control his displeasure. Meanwhile, the team receives a case from Texas; a serial killer who leaves the corpses mutilated and in unusual positions.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Eat Me, Drink Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8110522) by [KiraH69](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiraH69/pseuds/KiraH69). 



> This is a translation of my own work. I had it translated for months, but I was looking for a beta. I haven't found one so it's un-beta. If anyone wants to help me with that...
> 
> Chapters 1 & 2: Crossover with Hannibal. Chapters 3 & 4: Crossover with The Walking Dead.
> 
> NOTE: For the hairstyle I took the one from the season 9, but the team doesn't correspond to that season, I've chosen only those I like.

" _Manners have been somewhat cynically defined to be a contrivance of wise men to keep fools at a distance_." Ralph Waldo Emerson.

 

Aaron Hotchner has always liked Doctor Reid's hair. He likes how bright it is, how soft it looks, the dozens of different tonalities that each lock brings, from the lightest blond to the darkest chestnut. He likes that it's straight and gracefully curved at the tips. He also likes Reid's adorable way of putting it behind the ear, and then it comes back loose in a matter of seconds. He likes even the fresh smell that comes off when the young man passes by his side. Aaron Hotchner has always thought that his subordinate’s hair could compete with that of any woman; with a something that makes it unique and more beautiful than that of any female. Hotch admired him in secret, not allowing anyone to notice, but not in a sexual sense ‒ really, no ‒, rather like admiring a work of art. He insisted on this again and again for his own conviction.

And then, one day, Reid appeared at the office with short hair. But not any "short". Goodbye to those wonderful undulations around the ears and neck, the entire lower half of his head was practically shaved. At the top, the locks were longer, but barely above the ears. Hotch felt a terrible urge to send him home and order him not to return until he had recovered his precious hair. But he restrained himself, maintaining his composure as always while the other members of the Unit mentioned the change of look. Instead, he gritted his teeth and swallowed. Even so, he was unable to smile or make any friendly comments; luckily he didn't need to, they had a case.

"Get ready. Out in five minutes, I'll give you the details on the plane." In the office, the five team members raised their heads to see their boss leaning against the banister in front of his office.

"Good morning to you too, Hotch," Morgan waved at him as his boss was already going back to his office.

"It must be serious," Prentiss said.

It was, though it wasn't the main reason for the brusqueness of their boss.

Half an hour later they all were already settled on the jet on their way to Dallas, Texas.

"It's strange that the people of Texas ask for or accept help. It must be something very serious." They'd never had it easy when a case fell in the State of Texas. Now it was beginning to worry them.

Hotch sat next to Prentiss on one side of one of the tables, with JJ and Morgan in front of him, and David and Reid in the seats next to them, across the aisle. He opened the laptop and put it against the wall, facing them for all to see. On the screen the image of Garcia appeared, with her headphones on and a ballpoint pen with pink feathers at the end.

"Hi, beautiful," Morgan greeted her with a smile.

«Good morning, gorgeous,» Penelope answered with a smile, which immediately turned into an expression of concern. «I hope you're ready because you're on your way to one of those cases that... well, I wish none of them existed, but this is one of those that could appear in a Thomas Harris novel.»

"To the point, Garcia," Hotch interrupted.

«Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.»

Penelope's image was replaced by a scenario. It was a park with trees full of green leaves, leafy shrubs and a sunlit intense-green grass with some wild flowers scattered here and there. In the foreground was a stone bench with lightly-rusted forged metal back. There was a man sitting on the bench, dressed in a blue suit with a red tie.

"What he's holding on his lap is his head?" Prentiss asked, trying to catch the details on the backlit photograph.

«I'm afraid so. And spread on the ground and in his hand are his own... is his own brain,» Garcia explained.

"Let me guess, the pigeons were eating the brains," the agent continued.

They could hear Garcia swallow, uncomfortable at the thought.

«Quite so. This is Laurence Pitt, 52, a Dallas resident and advisor at a branch of Daily Bank. Three months ago he disappeared on his way home on a Saturday night after leaving a restaurant, where he'd dined with some customers. He was found in William Blair Jr. Park early the next morning by a couple jogging.»

"He died between one and two in the morning," JJ murmured, reading the forensic report on her tablet.

"The UnSub moved him and set the scene at night. It's probably not a place people dare to walk around at that time," Morgan added.

"The victim died from an overdose of Propofol. It had nothing to do with being decapitated or with his brain being taken out?" Rossi said.

"The UnSub didn't extract the brain. Apart from what he has in his hand, what there's on the ground and what must've eaten by birds and some other animals, he still keep most of it. The decapitation was post-mortem. Propofol is a short-acting intravenous anesthetic agent, also used for sedation in Intensive Care Units. You can't get it in pharmacies, but it's relatively easy to get at any hospital," Reid informed them.

"Wait, the decapitation was post-mortem, but the removal of the skull cap didn't," Morgan pointed out. "If he wasn't going to be conscious with the Propofol anyway, why not do it when the victim was already dead? It doesn't look like we're facing a sadist. He doesn't want to cause pain; this seems something a little more twisted."

"You're wrong, Morgan," Reid spoke again. "The UnSub may not want to cause physical pain, but perhaps what he seeks is psychological suffering." At the inquisitive eyes of his colleagues he continued. "Propofol is often used for conscious sedation. For example, in craniotomies in which the patient must be awake to perform a cortical mapping and reliably identify the cortical areas and sub-cortical pathways involved in motor, senso-"

"So he was awake as the UnSub opened his skull," Prentiss interrupted.

"Since no other drug has been detected in his body, I'm inclined to think so. In addition, according to the report, the UnSub used a surgical electric saw."

"He opened the victim's skull and did something with his brain while he was conscious. Yes, that would probably be a torture as intense as any physical torture," Rossi nodded seriously. "Are we looking for a doctor then? Or someone who didn't end the major or closely related to medicine."

"Don't draw conclusions yet, we still have more victims."

Kacey Armitage, 34, a Dallas resident and manager of Montesquieu restaurant. She was found two months and a week ago, at a picnic table in Trinity River Greenbelt, the other big park in the city, eating with herself. On one side of the table was sat the lower half of her body, divided by the waist; on the other side, the upper half, with the forearms on the table supporting her, plus two metal bars that pierced through her torso holding it to the seat. She was dressed impeccably in the uniform she wore daily at work. On the table there were two plates, one for each half of the body, with their respective cutlery, glasses and napkins. In the plate in front of the torso was the woman's tongue, in the other there was blood, but nothing more. The autopsy revealed that she had also died from an overdose of Propofol after her tongue was cut and her liver removed through a surgical precision incision, probably with a scalpel.

"Propofol in the blood. She was awake too. But this isn't a craniotomy," Rossi said.

"The UnSub probably left the liver on the other plate and some animal took it," Prentiss suggested.

"It's possible, although the cutlery is perfectly placed. That animal was very careful not to dislodge anything," Morgan's tone would have been almost funny if not for the images they were seeing.

"Do you think the murderer took it? As a trophy?" The female agent asked.

"Or cannibalism. He could eat it right there even without using the cutlery," JJ pointed.

"While it's true that the staging with the dishes can make us think of cannibalism, we must also take into account the work of the victim: restaurant manager. This may have more to do with her work than with cannibalism," Reid said.

"In that case the UnSub knew the victim. Could he also know the first one?" Rossi asked. "Though there wasn't any reference to his work."

"There's still the most recent victim," their chief spoke again. "Garcia?"

«Yes, Sir. Hugh Mikkelsen, 33, a Dallas resident too and high school teacher. He was last seen alive last night as he left a bar, and his body was discovered this morning at the Dallas Theater Center... well, you can see how.»

The naked body, or at least part of it, was on a stage. Cables were holding him, directly engaged piercing his skin. His torso tilted 90 degrees so that he seemed to be bowing to the audience. His arms, on the other hand, were perfectly covered by sleeves of a suit and shirt with cufflinks. They were placed on a seat in the front row, pierced by metal rods to support them, with the upper part where the muscle and bone could be seen leaning against the back of the seat, and the elbows on the seat while the forearms rose in the air.  The palms were together in a relaxed position as if they were clapping.

"They haven't done the autopsy yet, but there are no cuts apart from those on the arms so it looks like the UnSub didn’t take any organ this time," Hotch explained.

"If it weren't for the way the UnSub put the body, it wouldn't be easy to relate it to the previous one, except if this one also died from an overdose of Propofol," Rossi began. "And Miss Armitage couldn't be related to the first victim either except by the Propofol. Beyond living in Dallas, I can't see any relationship between the three of them. Did you find anything, Garcia?"

«Hugh Mikkelsen has an account at the Daily Bank, but has never made any management at the branch where Mr. Pitt worked. I haven't found any other link between them, sorry.»

"It's ok, Garcia. Keep looking."

«I'm on it, boss. I promise I'll find something.» The window in which the analyst appeared was closed.

"What don’t fit are the times: three weeks between the first and the second, and more than two months until the third," Prentiss summarized. "Or he has a lot of self-control ‒ which could be possible given how organized the scenarios are ‒ or our UnSub has been killing elsewhere; or something has prevented him from killing in these two months."

"Garcia's already looking for possible related cases, but, as you have pointed out, given the organization of the scenarios, I tend toward the first option; the UnSub has a lot of self-control. When we arrive we'll go directly to the third scenario, I've asked to leave the body intact so that we can see it firsthand."

In less than three hours they landed in Dallas. As soon as they left the comfortable air-conditioned jet, they all felt a terrible urge to remove even the last layer of clothing. August in Texas wasn't comfortable at all and almost at noon even less. Two black SUV were waiting for them at the airstrip and carried them through the almost deserted streets of Dallas to the Theater Center.

"Texas State Fair," Prentiss read in a large placard. "Oh, now I understand why they called us so fast."

"That's right. It's going to be a big party, and the mayor doesn't want a serial killer in the city," Hotch said in the passenger seat.

"Many tourists and visitors. It will be easy to go unnoticed and kidnap someone without anyone noticing," Rossi added. "Although this UnSub doesn't try to hide what he does so high risk people won't be his priority."

They arrived at the Theater Center. A few police cars and many uniformed officers were waiting outside the building, plus several dozens of journalists on the other side of the police cordon around the entrance within a radius of fifteen meters so they wouldn't disturb. The six agents ignored the journalists and passed between the policemen to the modern gray building with the two lower floors glazed. They entered the wide, luminous hall with vertical lights dangling from the ceiling, and the sheriff received them.

"The Agents of the Behavior Analysis Unit, I suppose. Welcome to Dallas." The short woman with round face and short black hair received them trying to smile, but barely getting it.

"Thank you for calling us, Sheriff Valdez. I'm SSA Aaron Hotchner," Hotch introduced himself with a handshake and introduced the rest of the team.

"I thank you for coming so quickly. This isn't something we met every day, and we'd like not to have a fourth victim," the sheriff told them.

"We'd like the same, that's why we're here. Could we see the body now?"

"Of course, come with me."

They went up several floors until they found a few policemen in a corridor, all of them with bad faces, and, as something unusual, this time it wasn't because of the FBI presence. The sheriff nodded to one of them and he spoke on the radio to one of his colleagues.

"I thought you'd like to see the scene as the murderer left it, with all the paraphernalia."

"Yes, it'd be preferable."

Musical chords began to escape through the door in front of the policemen.

"Please go ahead."

The six agents crossed the door to the large room full of seats that they had already seen in the photos. The lights were off except for a spotlight that lit up the naked body in the center of the stage. The music played loudly, wrapping around the room. Perhaps it was a light effect or the body posture, but at first glance it was hard to realize that his arms were missing and that he was supported by cables. He still looked alive, an actor bowing before the absent audience. They walked down the center aisle, without missing a detail of what the UnSub had wanted to show to them. The arms couldn't be seen from the back of the room. You didn't notice them until you came in front of the stage and you turned around. And yet the darkness made them difficult to distinguish.

Hotch gestured to the cops at the door and the lights in the room went on as the music went out.

 JJ approached to the arms and bend down to carefully observe them.

"He prepared the sleeves specifically for this," she commented.

"What do you mean?" Morgan came closer to her.

"They aren't just cut from a suit. He has sewn a hem to the ends so they don't fray."

"A thorough job."

Meanwhile, Prentiss went up the stage with Rossi. They watched the hooks that penetrated deep into the victim's hips and shoulders, connecting him to the cables that held him standing in that 90-degree tilted position.

"I see no more wounds than the hooks, and the cuts of his arms seem to have been made cleanly. Didn't he take any trophy this time?" Rossi asked.

"Maybe the liver was not a trophy either," Prentiss suggested. "He seems to be in good shape, considerably strong. I don't think he was easy to control."

"I can't see any sign of struggle in the hands," JJ added. "And it looks like the UnSub did the manicure to the victim; his nails are too neat for a high school teacher.  He may use the Propofol to kidnap him without struggling."

"Or he went with the UnSub voluntarily if he knew him."

"Garcia?" The five agents turned to look at Reid as he telephoned.

«Tell me my little big genius, what can I do for you?» The analyst was heard by the hands-free.

"Did Mr. Mikkelsen usually go to theaters, operas or other shows?"

«Give me a sec... No, there isn't any charge to his card or anything that indicates so... Oh, wait, his girlfriend did buy two tickets for the opera two weeks ago.»

" _Carmen_?"

«How did you know?»

"The music that sounded was _Toreador_ , one of the main songs of the opera _Carmen_. Garcia, find out who else came that day to this opera and contrast the list with the clients of Mr. Pitt and Mrs. Armitage."

«Right away!» A beep and the call ended.

"Do you think the UnSub met him here?"

"The UnSub knew what opera he saw, but besides these designs look like a punishment with a rather black humor. He seemed to be calling idiot to the first one, saying that his brains were worth feeding the pigeons. To the second one, he cut her tongue and extracted the liver, where bile is generated. It looked like he wanted to punish her for having bad temper or something like that. And it's possible that this man may not like the play. The UnSub is humiliating him by placing his naked body on the stage and forcing him to applaud to himself. I won't be able to confirm any of this until we talk with the families of the victims, but it's a theory."

  "JJ and Morgan, go talk with the families of the victims. Prentiss and Rossi, to the crime scenes and to the places where they could have been kidnapped. Reid, you'll continue analyzing the data that we have about the UnSub from the command post; you seem to understand this subject quite well."

While Reid and Hotch accompanied the sheriff in her car, the other two teams took the SUVs to go to their destinations. In the sheriff's office their work area with a board and all the information about the case had already been settled thanks to Garcia. Reid immediately immersed himself in the papers, spreading photos of the scenes across the table and checking data. It surprised him, but he was able to see quite clearly what the UnSub was trying to create. Perhaps it was the absence of chaos, the perfect order. Everything made sense, or almost everything. He still needed to uncover some unknowns, connect the missing points.

When Hotch finished talking to the sheriff and make sure everything was ready for their stay there, he went to the command post. Opening the door, the image that received him left Hotch paralyzed for a moment. It was the usual image with Reid standing, bending over the table, taking his hands from one paper to another and moving his eyes almost frantically. He was in shirt sleeves and had even unbuttoned the top button because of the intense heat despite the AC which barely worked. Normally he'd have been watching his hair falling around his face, moving unruly from side to side. Now he could only see his bare neck with a slight sheen of sweat, so slender and provocative. With the wavy locks covering it he had never realized that it was so long. Hotch wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. He could trace a path with his tongue from the area behind the ear down the joint with his shoulder. Or bite that beautiful clear nape. How good it'd look with a red mark. _Soft and salty._

"Wah!"

The young man in front of him jumped and backed away, crashing against the table shaking it. Hotch realized then that he had kissed Reid on the nape.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't-"

When he met Reid's wide-open eyes, staring at him in surprise and utter dismay, Hotch was speechless. What explanation could he give? What explanation did that have? He felt the heat rise to his face. The man closed his mouth, pressing lips and teeth and swallowed.

"It's... okay... U-um..." Reid turned around uncomfortably, his cheeks taking an increasingly intense pink hue, and it wasn't just the heat of the room. "L-look, I think our UnSub could have met the third victim in the opera," he began to explain trying to lighten the situation, seeing how uncomfortable his boss felt. "That he placed the body there, with the same music as the play he saw, tells me that he went too. He'd pick the victim there and then wait to have everything ready and find the right moment, probably stalking him to discover his schedules. He's an extremely patient person, no doubt."

"By the position the second victim was placed, it's possible that he met her in her restaurant." Hotch was grateful for be able to ignore that he had just kissed his subordinate's neck. "As for the first victim, it doesn't seem to have anything to do with his work. He may have met him somewhere else."

"I'm analyzing his movements in the previous days, but it's hard to know what made the UnSub choose him. If it was, as I imagine, something the victim did to annoy him, then it could have been anything anywhere. A push, a bad word, an argument... When JJ and Morgan come back from talk with the families I'll know something else."

"Good, keep up with this. According to his modus, it'll be almost impossible to anticipate his next action, but we could find him if we relate him to all the victims, if we discover when and why he chose them."

He left as soon as he could the room and went into the bathroom. Hotch washed his face to try to clear his mind and calm the heat. He still felt an incredible shame and a strange tingling in his belly. He liked the young doctor's hair, he had assumed it and had come to accept it as something natural, but he also liked his neck, and that was not so normal. Also, judging by Hotch's reaction, he liked it in a very sexual sense. Until then, Hotch had seen himself as a straight man, though he'd never tested it since his only partner had been Haley. However, thinking of Spencer Reid, thinking about touching him and even kissing him didn't feel unpleasant. But now wasn't the time to think about it! He shook his head to push those thoughts away. They were in the middle of a case, and a serious one; it was not the most opportune moment to stop being professional.

A couple of hours later, JJ and Morgan arrived at the sheriff's office, a few minutes after the other team.

"For the daring places where he left the first two bodies, even at night, no doubt he has experience and is adventurous," Rossi began. "He has a great deal of confidence in himself. The places where he could kidnap the first victim don't seem easy at all either. Mr. Pitt may even accompany him of his own will."

"Mr. Mikkelsen's girlfriend told us that he didn't argue with anyone in the opera," JJ began to inform them, "but he was very unpleasant because it wasn't something he liked. They ended up having an argument that started in the lobby and continued at home."

"Maybe his behavior upset our UnSub," Prentiss suggested.

"As for Mrs. Armitage, she seemed to be quite disagreeable with customers. The restaurant wasn't going very good, many customers didn't return after ending up arguing with her. It seems that it has improved since her death."

"What about Mr. Pitt?"

"He was serious and not very friendly, but they didn't mention anything unpleasant or arguing with people. He didn't do anything that could be considered annoying."

"Maybe not for us, but yes for the UnSub," Hotch remarked. "I think we're ready to give the profile."

The six members of the BAU appeared in front of the Dallas police.

"We are facing an intelligent subject, who goes unnoticed, sociable, none of his acquaintances will ever have thought that he's a murderer," Prentiss began.

"He's very skillful and probably refined. He likes art and is polite. Above all, he detests bad manners, rudeness. That's how he selected his victims, they did something he disliked," Morgan went on.

"Is it possible that they are two murderers?" One of the policemen interrupted. "The way he places the bodies takes a lot of time and work, and the places are risky to spend a lot of time there."

"It's unlikely. In the cases of two murderers they're often complementary or opposing minds, one dominant and the other submissive, one methodical and the other disorganized," Reid explained, with broad gestures of his arms. "In this case it seems realized by a single mind. He's systematic, patient, with a certain artistic sense ‒ questionable ‒ and great self-control, not only for the two months between one murder and the next, but because I'm completely sure that Laurence Pitt was not his first victim; a murder so perfect and calculated can't be the first."

"How can murders such as these have been overlooked?" Another policeman asked.

"They're not necessarily like these. He's calculating, he has planned them ‒ the use of plates and cutlery, the rods to support the bodies. It's not something he does by necessity but something he has _decided_ to do. There's also some evolution, some more complexity in the next one. I think, I'm sure," he corrected with more confident, "that he has killed before, but likely this is the first time he's done these scenarios, he's experimenting. Although the use of medicines or surgical methods is likely to be a constant given his connection to medicine."

"Because of his modus operandi it's not possible to predict his next murder. He may kill tomorrow, next week or never again here or this way. Our best option right now is to find his relation with the three victims and the exact moment he chose them."

The explanations of the members of the BAU weren't very encouraging for the policemen or for themselves either. The murderers without a specific pattern, the intelligent killers who kill for pure pleasure without being driven by an imperious need were the most difficult to capture since they could stop killing when they wanted the moment the police approached, change their methodology or victimology.

They ate quickly and continued to work on the few data they had. They couldn't find a relationship between the opera assistants and the other two victims. Investigate the people who had eaten in the restaurant Montesquieu hadn't achieved anything either and they didn't manage to discover the relation between the first victim and the murderer. They knew a lot and at the same time nothing that would lead them to the murderer. It was frustrating.

«Gentlemen, and ladies, I think I have something,» Garcia informed them from the hands-free. «Among those attending the opera we have two doctors, at least that paid with a card. One of them was in the operating room all night of Kacey Armitage's disappearance; the other is Dr. Frederick Chilton, director of the Green Oaks psychiatric hospital. He left the surgery before finishing the practice and moved on to psychiatry.»

"Do we have him on security cameras?"

«Am... No, Sir. For a new building, the Theater Center have few cameras and many blind spots, it wouldn't be difficult to avoid being recorded.»

"What did you find about him? Has he ever eaten at the Montesquieu?" Morgan asked.

«Look, he didn't pay with his card in the restaurant, but there's a parking charge a few meters from the restaurant and that same day one of the hospital psychiatrist, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, paid a meal for two in the restaurant. This was a week before the murder of Kacey Armitage.»

"Dr. Lecter could treat him. Any relation with Laurence Pitt?"

«I have nothing direct, but the branch in which Mr. Pitt worked is a couple of blocks from the hospital where Dr. Chilton works.»

"Does that doctor have any kind of background?" Rossi asked.

«Complaints of some patients and relatives, nothing unusual, but he also has many complaints from colleagues and a couple of complaints of unfair dismissal since he's running the hospital. Other than that he's clean.»

"I was expecting that from our UnSub. He's not an impulsive person that would be arrested for violence or the likes as usual, but he'll have difficulty in dealing with behavior he deems inappropriate by his colleagues," Reid said. "If he did most of the surgery practices, he'll have enough knowledge for the interventions that were performed on the bodies. Also, he'll have access to Propofol and other medications."

"He's a good candidate. Let's see him?" Morgan suggested.

"No, first we'll go talk to Dr. Lecter to make sure he was with Dr. Chilton at the restaurant. Even if we suspect Dr. Chilton is the UnSub, we have no evidence against him, we shouldn't rush."


	2. Chapter 2

Late that night, when the sun had set and the temperature had dropped slightly, a black SUV parked in front of a small two-story detached house with white exterior. Agent Morgan and Dr. Reid got out of the car and approached the door. There was a lighted window on the lower floor. After knocking on the door, in a few seconds a man opened it. He was as tall as they were, with his hair neatly combed with a part in one side; straight-nosed, and marked cheekbones and chin; dressed in a white shirt and a beige waistcoat with plaid brown trousers. He had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and wore an apron at his waist.

"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" He asked them with a polite smile.

"Are you Dr. Hannibal Lecter?" Morgan asked.

"Indeed."

Both agents showed him their FBI credentials.

"I'm Special Agent Derek Morgan and he's Dr. Spencer Reid from the FBI's Behavior Analysis Unit. We’re investigating a case and would like to ask you some questions. Could we come in?"

"Of course, come in." He pushed himself aside to let them pass. "Excuse me, but I was making dinner. If you give me a minute, I'll turn everything off and I'll be with you. Please take a seat. Would you want something to drink?"

"No, we're okay, thank you."

Dr. Lecter escorted the two agents into the living room and disappeared immediately into the kitchen. Reid had a strange feeling. This living room and the little he had seen from the entrance and hallway seemed taken from an interior decoration magazine. It was cozy and perfect, so perfect that it was scary to spoil or dislodge something, to the point that it didn't seem like anyone lived there. But he looked like a man of means, so he could perfectly well have hired a professional decorator.

"Excuse me for the waiting, I'm with you now." Dr. Lecter came back without his apron and with a matching jacket with his pants, and sat down on the armchair, motioning them to sit on the couch. "What did you want to ask me?"

"Did you ever go to the restaurant Montesquieu?" Morgan began.

"That's right, I went to dinner last week," he replied with his kind expression.

"Had you been there before?"

"Yes... a couple of months ago, I think," he thought for a second. "I went to lunch with a friend."

"What friend?"

"Dr. Frederick Chilton. He runs the psychiatric hospital where I work. Could you tell me why do you ask me about the Montesquieu?"

The perfect French accent with which he pronounced the name of the restaurant in that deep tone of voice made Spencer shudder, he didn't know why.

"We can't give you details, but we’re investigating Dr. Chilton. Have you seen anything unusual in him yesterday or today?"

"Mm... Yesterday I only saw him once in the morning and we greet each other normally. Today I had lunch with him and Dr. Bloom and I haven't appreciated anything out of the ordinary."

"What could you tell us about his personality or his life?"

"Um... He's a hardworking man and good at his job, almost obsessed with it. He's always the first to arrive and the last to leave. He's very educated and intelligent; it's pleasant to converse with him. I don't know much about his private life, only that he's single. We usually talk more about work."

"Is he irascible? Does he easily lose control?"

"No... well, I haven't seen him ever lose control, but he does get very tense when things don't go the way he wants, but he always contain."

"Have you seen him arguing with anyone?"

"In the hospital he doesn't argue, he gives orders and the subordinates obey. We don't relate much outside of work, but I've never seen him discuss with anyone."

"What about you?" Reid asked for the first time.

"Me?" Dr. Lecter replied, tilting his head slightly.

"Do you often argue? Lose control?"

Morgan avoided looking confused at his colleague, they weren't there to ask for Dr. Lecter, but he didn't say anything.

"No, I don't lose control; at least it's not something usual. However, I do usually discuss, on issues of philosophy and psychology above all. Sometimes these discussions become heated with the right conversationalist."

"Where were you last night?"

"Here. I went through the supermarket after work, came home, and didn't leave until the next morning," he explained calmly. "Do I need an alibi for something? What happened last night?"

"Don't worry, we're not investigating you, Dr. Lecter, they're routine questions," Morgan interjected. "Thank you very much for your cooperation, we're leaving now."

The two agents got up and Dr. Lecter shook hands with both of them. Again Spencer felt his body shudder in that strange way. He couldn't identify what it was.

"Good night, gentleman."

"Good night, Dr. Lecter. Thank you for looking after us," Morgan said, feeling forced to be overly educated by the doctor's own good manners.

When they were in the car, Morgan turned behind the wheel to look at his colleague.

"What did that come to?"

"What do you mean?" Though he already knew what he was talking about.

"Do you think Dr. Lecter could be the UnSub? He wasn't at the opera."

"He didn't buy tickets with his card, but we don't know if he was or not there. Anyway, it's not that I _think_ it's him, just... I don't know, I feel he could fit in the profile."

"Hmm... I'll ask Garcia to investigate him, but Dr. Chilton seems to me a more likely candidate."

"Yes... maybe."

They informed their colleagues about what they had spoken with Dr. Lecter, and they went directly to the hotel for the night. They dined in their own shared room, and went to bed immediately; in the morning they would get up very early to continue the case.

Reid didn't mention his concerns about Dr. Lecter again, they didn't seem to convince his colleague, but he couldn't get it out of his head. It was obvious that he was a very intelligent man, extremely educated and refined. His accent pronouncing Montesquieu had been perfect, and it had made Reid tremble for reasons he still didn't know; during the rest of the conversation he had noticed a subtle accent that the young doctor couldn't identify. He was sure that Dr. Lecter had European origins, perhaps Eastern Europe, but he was incapable of specifying. On top of that, the handshake they had share before left had lasted a few seconds longer, he still didn't know whether for a purpose or not. And his hands had surprised Reid. They were big and strong ‒ a casual voice in his head had suggested how good it'd feel to be touched by them, to be roaming by them ‒, but what had caught his attention was that they weren't smooth like those of men who worked in an office, but rather rough and tanned, though well cared for. He wasn't a man limited to paperwork; he worked with his hands, but in what?

That he was single also struck him. He was a very attractive man and with his gentlemanliness and good position it wouldn't be difficult for him to make any woman fall in love with him. But what was he thinking? How many women would be in love with him by now? He'd have a hard time with his female patients, even with some male patients. Spencer felt a tingling in the lower abdomen and turned in the bed. He gripped the pillow tightly with both hands to avoid taking them elsewhere. His colleague was sleeping in the next bed so it wasn't a good time.

There was a surveillance car stationed in front of Dr. Chilton's house. The psychiatrist arrived at night straight from work and didn't leave the house until the early hours of the morning. Another camouflaged police car followed him to Green Oaks Hospital and stayed parked in front of the building while another car waited in the back. Dr. Chilton didn't leave the building all day.

"Reid, why do you suspect Dr. Lecter?" JJ asked when the young doctor urged Penelope to look for information about him.

"It's not that I suspect him, it's just... He could fit in the profile and I had a strange feeling when we visited him yesterday."

"Precisely you usually aren't carried away by presentiments"

"I know, but... he's a peculiar man, that's all."

"I didn't find him suspicious, we just aren't used to such... educated people," Morgan said. "I think that's just because he doesn't have a very American air, he seemed more like a European nobleman."

«Actually he is, sweetheart. He was born in Lithuania, his father was a nobleman and his mother belonged to the Italian high bourgeoisie. He was orphaned when he was very young, and grew up with his aunt, studying in the best European schools. At age 22 he moved to Maryland where he got a PhD in Psychiatry and worked as an expert for the Maryland and Virginia courts. After that he has worked in different cities both in private clinics and independently, usually with clients of great economic and social level. He has a lot of prestige in the world of psychiatry. The doctor has published many articles and is named in many others. He has also collaborated sporadically in different activities related to art, he has even given seminars in some universities or participated in the assembly of exhibitions in museums.»

"Why have he changed jobs and city so much?" Reid frowned.

«Um... It's not always specified why, but he has never been fired from any job, that's for sure. He usually receives a request from a client or psychiatric facility to work with them and he goes. Or even to work in one of these museums during the preparation of the exhibition.»

"Complaints from patients or colleagues?"

«Almost nothing. Some colleague has accused him of stealing patients, but I think the patients wanted to go with him because of his popularity. He has no complaint or report that has prospered."

"Does that convince you?" Morgan asked.

"Yes, I suppose. Even so I'd like to keep him in mind just in case."

"Well, that won’t hurt."

The six agents spent the rest of the day interviewing friends and relatives of the victims, as well as some acquaintances ‒ because he had no friends ‒ of Dr. Chilton. Although none of that gave them any new clues. Mikkelsen's girlfriend didn't remember seeing the doctor at the opera; other Montesquieu workers remembered seeing him in the restaurant, but they already knew that, and they also said that he had had a little quarrel with Armitage, which wasn’t strange at all; in Pitt's environment some recognized the doctor, which wasn't unusual since the branch was very close to the hospital, but they didn't remember ever having seen him talking to the victim. They just could wait...

 

...And they didn't have to wait long.

"Agent Hotchner, we've got a missing person," the sheriff said when they were about to leave for the hotel.

"Inform me."

"His name is Mads Dancy, psychiatrist. They denounced his disappearance half an hour ago."

"Since when is he disappeared?"

"The last time they saw him was two hours ago."

Hotch and the other members of the team looked at her in surprise.

"Are we sure it's a disappearance?"

"Yes, agent. He's father of a child, a widower, and hasn't gone to pick up his son from day care as he does every day. Neither the caregivers nor his sister, who is his only relative, can contact him."

"Killing a fellow practitioner seems risky," JJ said.

"If he has realized we were investigating, he might have lost control," Prentiss replied.

"But Chilton is under surveillance, isn't he?" Rossi asked the sheriff.

"Yes, he went straight home as soon as he got off work, and the agents are watching over the entrance, he hasn't come out again."

"Tell those agents to knock at the door right now," Hotch ordered, with a bad feeling.

The short woman stared at him for a moment, wanting to say something as if he believed her agents were incompetent, but with a life in danger wasn't the time for that. She called her agents herself, and a few minutes later she got the answer to the unasked question.

"Agent Hotchner, there's no one in the house."

The six agents looked at each other. Hotch pulled out his cell phone and used the speed dial to contact Garcia.

«How can I help-»

"Garcia, does Dr. Chilton have any property in Dallas? A place where he could take his victims," he asked, cutting off the woman's well-intentioned kindness.

«Sir, by investigating Dr. Chilton I haven't found any property in his name," she informed them from the hands-free. «Buuut, the hospital does have some properties to which Dr. Chilton would have full access by being the director of the center. I've discarded several of them because they're currently in use or in downtown areas and have reduced the list to two places: a disused farm 135 kilometers from the city and an abandoned factory on the outskirts of the north.»

"The farm would be almost three hours round trip. He doesn't keep the bodies enough to spend so much time on the road," Prentiss said.

"Garcia."

"I send you the address of the factory."

A quarter of an hour later, the six team members emerged from the SUVs with their vests on and their guns drawn in front of an old, two-story, abandoned-looking building. But there was a car at the entrance, an old black two-doors that no one would even try to steal.

"I'll go with Prentiss and Rossi from behind!" Morgan shouted on the way.

The other half of the team was ahead, followed by almost a dozen policemen. Cars surrounded the building; no one could get out of it without being seen. But no one was going to get out of it. They opened the front door with a rumble. All they wanted was to find Mads Dancy alive, to avoid the fourth victim ‒ if this was only the fourth and there weren't many more before as Reid supposed.

In that area the night was so dark that they would see nothing without their flashlights and there was an unpleasant smell of garbage in the air. They advanced through the entrance hall, securing each of the doors leading to different rooms and offices, all empty. They finally reached a large room where in the past there must have been machines, and now it was empty, except for one small staging in the center: an elongated metal table; a large bulb at his side illuminating it, the only light in the whole room; an smaller metal table next to the first, with different medical instruments on it; and a chair. On the large table was a naked body, a young man in his thirties with his belly open from the tip of his sternum to his genitals in a thin line scarcely noticeable by the ruby glow of the blood that sprouted, and whose excess had been cleansed with rags lying now on the floor. The legs were sectioned at the height of the groin, but they were barely separated from the body, remaining in the same position in which they would be attached to the trunk. The same happened with the arms, sectioned at the level of the armpits. There was an electric saw next to the head; the neck was halfway to have the same destiny as the limbs.

Behind the table, seated in the chair, clutching its armrests with gloved and bloodied hands, Dr. Chilton, pale and wide-eyed, stared at the body in front of him. Sweat shone on his face. He was shaking. Dr. Chilton murmured something that the agents couldn't understand until they approached, aiming him with their guns.

"I didn't... I haven't done this... don't remember... I haven't... don't...

 

 

"He'll claim dementia," Prentiss said.

"That won't help him with what he's done," Morgan replied.

The five agents were gathered at the command post while their boss was talking to the sheriff. They had taken Dr. Chilton to the sheriff's office without any mishap, although the man kept repeating over and over again that he didn't remember anything, that he hadn't done that, that the last thing he remembered was to be in his house and then he had awakened in that chair in front of the corpse.

"He's a psychiatrist, it won't be difficult for him to fake the symptoms of what suits him better, but that will also be taken into account by anyone who evaluates him," Rossi explained.

"It's a pity not to have been able to save Mr. Dancy, he leaves his son orphaned."

"His aunt will take care of him, but yes, it's a pity."

They could no longer interrogate him because he had almost pleaded for a lawyer, but they didn't need it. They had found him in full action, which would be as much before a jury as any confession. Hotch returned to the living room with his usual serious expression ‒ he couldn't smile after not having arrived in time to save the last victim ‒ but more relaxed.

"It's late and we won't return to Quantico until tomorrow, go to rest at the hotel."

All the agents accepted delighted. Hotch still had some paperwork to finish, but he promised to leave soon too.

"Reid, aren't you coming?" Morgan asked when he saw the young doctor lurking at the entrance of the building.

"Um... No, I have something to do, I'll go later," he replied, with a nervous gesture of the hand without moving from the door.

Morgan frowned at him for a moment, but then he turned and got into the SUV with his colleagues. When he lost sight of them, Spencer went to the taxi stand on the opposite sidewalk. It was late and he knew it ‒ in fact it was about midnight ‒, it wasn't the right time to do it and he knew it, but he _needed_ to. He felt bad for having doubted him. He realized that it wasn't because he fit the profile, but because, for some reason other than the case, he had become very nervous in his presence. He didn't want to leave leaving a bad impression, letting the man believe that he saw him as a psychopath.

In a few minutes the taxi stopped in front of Dr. Lecter's house. Spencer was relieved to see a light still lit upstairs. He went to the door and, even knowing that the psychiatrist was awake, hesitated for several seconds before ring. After all it was midnight. He rang the doorbell, but he still felt the urge to run away during the time it took to open the door. The only thing stopping him was how childish that would have been ‒ and not to have anywhere to hide. He was glad to have stayed there when the doctor received him with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to the elbows and the first two buttons opened.

"Oh, Dr. Reid, right?" Spencer felt a tingling descend from his belly at his name in that elegant accent, with that soft and seductive? smile. "Has something happened?"

"N-no... Well, yes, but..." he swallowed, trying to control himself. He didn't understand why he was getting so nervous. "Um... Could I talk to you for a second?"

"Of course. Please come in." In contrast to his nervousness, Dr. Lecter was completely calm. He pushed himself aside and let the young man in, closing the door behind him. "May I offer you something to drink?"

"I-I'm fine, thank you."

"If you're not working, I must insist. I just opened a bottle of _Château L'Evangile_ which I'm sure you'll like, I was having a drink."

Spencer's legs trembled for more than a second when he heard that perfect French spoken again with the most attractive accent he had ever heard. In a moment Dr. Lecter returned to the room holding two glasses of wine. He handed one to Reid with a smile that completely prevented him from rejecting it. He didn't like wine, or so he thought. He hadn't tasted many, and he didn't know what would be the best way to take it. See, smell, taste... He knew the theory, the practice was something else. But when he saw the doctor take a sip, he relaxed and simply imitated him. He was surprised at the taste, deep but soft, with a touch of wild fruits, perhaps, or maybe it was just his imagination. Anyway, it was good.

He saw a smile on Dr. Lecter's face as he watched him enjoy the wine. He felt his cheeks flush and his body tensed.

"Wine is one of the oldest drinks ever known. The grape is a fruit with a natural tendency to ferment, so it's very likely that the wine was the first known alcoholic beverage. Remains of vineyards cultivated in the Caucasus have been found with an antiquity of seven thousand years, and wine vessels of ancient Egypt have also been found with the name of the product, the vineyard and the year inscribed, indicating their concern for quality of wine. And I'm babbling too much, and you probably already know all this, I'm sorry."

Ashamed, he looked down at the glints of light on the surface of the wine. When he got nervous he talked too much. Well, he _always_ talked too much, but when he got nervous he talked about things that he already knew wouldn't be of any interest and that he'd normally try to avoid.

"Yes, I already knew it, but the way you say it is charming, Dr. Reid. Makes it seem even more interesting than it is."

If he wasn't all red before, he was now. He had the irrational fear that his face would turn the same tone as the wine. He didn't know how to react; he wasn't accustomed to be praised by his encyclopedic comments.

"Um... You don't need to call me 'Dr. Reid'." He chose to change the subject.

"Well, then I'll ask you the same thing. You can call me Hannibal. Is it okay if I call you Spencer?"

Spencer? Oh, yes, because that was his name. But it hadn't seemed so at all when that man had pronounced it. He felt a jolt at the base of his spine that made him stand straighter in a movement clearly perceptible to his host. He just nodded, feeling that the tone of voice that would come out of his mouth wouldn't be the most appropriate.

"Sit down with me, please," Lecter said, gesturing toward the sofa.

Spencer sat on one end with his back straight and the glass of wine in both hands, heating it unnecessarily, while Lecter sat down on the other side of the couch, closer to the center, with elegant precise movements, as they all seemed to be.

"And what do I owe to this pleasant visit?" He asked with a polite smile ‒ only polite, because Spencer couldn't assimilate more at that moment.

"We've sorted out the case we came in for," he said, relieved that he could move to a subject he could control. "We've caught the culprit."

"Of the murder of the theater? I've seen the news. You came for it, didn't you?

"That's right, but that wasn't the only murder he committed. There were two more two months ago, a bank worker and the manager of Montesquieu. Although, I think, these wouldn't have been the first ones either. As calculated and well executed they were, I'm sure he wasn't a beginner.

"Yes, I remember, the bodies that appeared in the parks, right? And... was Dr. Chilton?" He asked, his expression worried.

"Yes, I'm so sorry."

"No, please, don't be sorry. I must be sorry. He was surrounded by psychologists and psychiatrists, and none of us were able to see what he was. That certainly doesn't say much in our favor."

"It wasn't easy to find out, he's not a standard psychopath, he doesn't act by impulses but with full rationality. In his daily life he get along in a completely normal and functional way, and kills in the same way. He just lost control when he realized we were after him. We probably couldn't have confirmed our suspicions to the contrary; there was no evidence in any of the scenarios.

"He lost control? What did he do?"

"Oh well... he killed another man. We found him while he was... taking care of the body. Although there's no evidence in the other murders, this will be enough to condemn him." By his almost lugubrious tone they didn't seem like good news. He failed to show the enthusiasm he wanted and was sure that the psychiatrist would notice.

"You feel guilty." It wasn't a question, he knew without a doubt that it was so.

Spencer took a sip of wine and slowly nodded.

"I would have liked- everyone on the team would have wanted to arrive while he was still alive. He didn't kill them right away, maybe a few minutes earlier and we could..."

"You didn't kill him. It's not your fault."

"I didn't kill him, but we let him do it. We were watching him at his house, and we let him escape from us. By our negligence, he was able to kill again." The wine was shaken in the glass. His body was taut and he was unable to keep his hands still. He set the glass down on the table, afraid to spill it over the surely expensive carpet.

"If you had noticed his flight and gone after him, you might have been able to capture him when he kidnapped his victim." His tone wasn't accusatory, he merely said things as they were. Reid nodded, pursing his lips. To hear it was even more painful than to think about it. "However, you could only have accused him of attempted kidnapping and, without evidence linking him to the other murders and without background, he wouldn't even have entered jail. Once free, he'd have gone to any other city or country and would have started murder again."

"Do you mean it's okay to have let him kill again so we can capture him?" He replied with a frown.

"Any murder is undesirable, but it may have been necessary to prevent other people from dying."

" _It shouldn't_ have been necessary. Oh, and you might know him, it's Dr. Mads Dancy."

Lecter's body tightened, just enough for Spencer to appreciate. He looked at the agent in surprise for a moment and looked down at his glass of wine.

"Yes, I knew him. He wanted to work in the hospital, but his therapies were rejected by all other psychiatrists. I wasn't in favor of his opinion either, it goes against my own nature, but of course I didn't wish his death for it." He tried to sound affected. "Besides, I think I remember that he had a son, is he well?"

"He's all right, he was at day care. His aunt will take care of him. What are those therapies?"

"Therapies to... 'cure' homosexuality. There are still a lot of people who think it's a disease, but we don't allow that kind of pseudo-treatment at the hospital."

"You don't think it's an illness?" Spencer asked curiously.

"No, of course not. Most of the arguments against it are centered on that it's unnatural. However, the human being ceased to be 'natural' a long time ago. With the overpopulation, it's not even vital that all humans reproduce, so that argument is not valid either. It may be due to a modification in some part of the brain or to hormonal reasons, or it may be born with it or developed for sociocultural reasons. It's not yet known, but any reason, physical or psychological, can't be called a disease because, even if it were a mutation somewhere in the brain, evolution is based on mutations. Since it doesn't prejudice the life of one's own person or that of others, nor the existence of the human race, there's no reason to try to 'cure' it."

"Mm... You said... it goes against your nature." He didn't dare ask directly, but he couldn't contain himself.

"Yes, I'm bisexual. And I've never considered that I was ill because of it nor has been a problem for my life," he explained without giving it more importance.

Spencer swallowed, his mouth going dry. He took the glass of wine and gave a longer sip than the previous ones. He felt his face getting hot again. He was aware for the first time of the situation he was in. Glasses of wine, a couch, a dimly lit room and an attractive bisexual man with the sexiest accent he'd ever heard. And he was aware of himself. He had appeared in front of this man's door at midnight alone, without a decent excuse. He was nervous, blushing, and with what he hoped wasn't an erection in his pants.

"Is it inconvenient for you?" Lecter asked, tilting his head slightly.

"N-no! Not... not at all, it's just that... I, well..." That was the first time in his life that he couldn't find the words. He took another long sip of wine.

"Do you have doubts about your sexuality?"

If he hadn't swallowed the wine already, Spencer would have started to cough. He bit his lower lip and ducked his head. This man was a reputed psychiatrist. He no doubt could read him as easily as he read the psychopaths they chased.

"Um... I... I think I'm... mh... in love with a man." He sighed as if he'd been holding his breath. It was the first time he had said it out loud, in fact it was the first time he'd thought enough of it to put it into words.

"Your boss?"

Spencer turned his head so fast he could almost hear a crack. He found an understanding gentle smile.

"H-how..." Impossible, he couldn't have discovered that, impossible. If he had discovered it...

"You're attracted to me, a considerably older man, and you're certainly a genius, so you didn't have a good childhood... Well, I'm sure you don't need me to explain everything I see when I look at you ‒ nothing unpleasant, by the way. And that has made me assume that you are looking for a paternal figure, an older man with authority. It's not strange in young people like you."

"I have daddy issues?"

"Probably."

Reid was a bit out of character and not sure how to react to such direct confirmation of his problem ‒ of which he already had some knowledge, though he had never wanted to acknowledge it.

"O-okay... And how could I fix it?" he finally managed to say.

"Fix it? I didn't say you should. Is it a problem?"

"Well... no, but..." That made him even more baffled.

"If it's not a problem for your life, you don't have to try to fix it. A relationship with an older man would undoubtedly be at least striking to outsiders and perhaps that concern over what _they say_ might end the relationship. You could also look for a partner your age, but this would also not ensure you have a long and profitable relationship. Both could last a lifetime or could last a few days and be a waste of time. It's not a question of age or parental problems, but of finding the right person."

At his words, Spencer's shoulders relaxed and he felt surprisingly calm. He didn't expect to find such a sincere understanding. Dr. Lecter's eyes didn't judge him; they analyzed him scientifically, and for some reason it made him feel good.

"I've never thought about it in depth. When I met him, he was married and when he divorced I just... well, I assumed he was heterosexual so I didn't consider anything. However, something has happened recently that has made me think that maybe... I don't know, maybe it's just my imagination, but perhaps he feels... _something_ for me too," he said hesitantly, his fingers twisting nervously.

"You are scared. To think that you could be reciprocated makes you even more afraid than not be." Spencer just nodded. "Why?"

"Because I'm not sure I'm gay. I don't know if I'd even be able to kiss him, let alone to sleep with him. I've never tried to do it with a man ‒ not that I have much experience with women. Maybe it's not love and just misunderstood admiration. He has already suffered a lot and I wouldn't want to make him suffer even more by rejecting him after confessing."

"With the last I can't help you, find out if you really are in love or not is something that only depends on you; but with everything else, I'd be happy to lend you a hand. It's impossible for you to _know_ if you can really have relations with a man if you don't try.

Spencer's brain took a second longer than usual to understand what he was trying to say. When he finally understood, he almost jumped to his feet. Leaving the glass with a precarious balance on the table, he turned the couch and hurried to the door.

"Th-thank you for... receiving me at this hour, I should go now," he almost stuttered.

"Spencer."

His firm tone made him stop on the spot. Lecter calmly got up off the couch and left the living room to catch him up near the front door. He approached the young man until they were only a step away. At the man's silence, as if he were expecting something, Spencer felt forced to look up. He didn't find an angry face as he expected but a pleasant smile and reassuring eyes.

"I know you're afraid, and I understand and respect that you don't want to have sexual relations with a man you just met; but I want to give you some advice: don't stay in limbo, you will never be happy there. Find out if you like men or not, find out if you are in love or not. The process may be painful, but the result, whatever it is, will set you free."

Spencer felt his heart pounding as hurtful as hopeful. He watched those brown eyes with coppery gleams that watched him, holding him untouched, pulling him out of a deep, dense abyss in which he had long since sunk, his limbo.

"Spencer, I can only offer you one night."

Even if he had used other words, even if he had been talking about any other subject, his dark, deep voice would have been equally a direct invitation to his bed.

He couldn't, he had to return to the hotel, Morgan would worry if he didn't. He couldn't, though his body was trembling anxious to be touched and he was biting his lower lip, containing the desire to kiss this man. He couldn't, because he was a complete stranger with whom he had hardly spoken.

His cell phone rang briefly and the moment of tension broke almost audibly. Spencer nervously pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and read the message. «I'm going to have a busy night, don't wait for me. DM.» It seemed that his friend had found company for that night. Knowing him as he knew him, Spencer was sure he wouldn't be back in the room until the next morning. The first impediment to spend the night with the doctor was gone, and with it all the others.

"U-um... I think one night is okay..." he replied, not looking away from his cell phone, without seeing the fleeting smile on Lecter's face.

 

 

A gentle hand stroked his shoulder and Reid woke up slowly. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. The light in the room was dim, but he could make out Hannibal's face, which gazed at him with a soft smile, sitting beside him. He stretched and rubbed his face with his hands, drawing his curls back.

"Good morning."

"Good morning, Spencer. I'm sorry to wake you up, but I thought you'd want to go back soon to the hotel with your colleagues."

"Oh, yes, thank you- ngh!" He sat up and felt a throbbing pain in the lower part of his back.

"Slowly. Let me help you." With his skilled hands, which had given him so much pleasure that night, Hannibal helped him to sit on the bed and then to stand up, completely naked. "Want me to help you in the bathroom?"

"Ah. N-no, I'm okay, thank you."

"If you want to take a shower, I'll bring you a towel."

"Yes, thank you."

He smell of sex, the whole room smelled of sex, and he couldn't meet with his colleagues in those conditions, they'd know immediately what he had done. He entered the bathroom attached to the bedroom and got into the shower. His body felt a little sore, especially in the middle area, but at the same time it felt like rubber, as if all the accumulated tension case by case had vanished. He had also slept like a baby, in one go, which hadn't happened to him in... years, at least without medication. That was what sex got. He liked it.

He has no doubt about it either, he liked sex with men. If he wasn't homosexual, at least he was bisexual. It didn't matter, he'd think about it another time; the important thing was that he was sure he liked men, that he could have sex with one, and that meant he could have sex with Hotch. Although it wasn't just sex what he wanted with him, but he didn't know if he could even have that. Hotch had kissed him on the nape and then he had seemed to have awakened from a nightmare. Maybe he had just kissed him by mistake. He felt a deep pain in his chest at the thought.

He stepped out of the shower and dried himself with the towel Hannibal had left while he showered. He found his clothes neatly placed on the bed. He dressed and looked at himself in the mirror, making sure nothing betrayed what he had done that night. Lecter had been careful enough not to leave any mark on him, but his face was gleaming, even his skin seemed to have more color and his eyes glittered. He himself didn't realize this, but it'd be obvious to anyone who knew him.

He went downstairs and Hannibal came out of the kitchen, a white apron around his waist.

"Have some breakfast before you leave, you need to recover energy."

_After all the exercise we did last night_ , were the unspoken words that made Spencer blush. He looked at his watch and nodded. He still had time and was hungry. He found at the kitchen table a plate with two slices of ham, a homemade sausage, a fried egg and two brown bread toasts. There were also a bowl with a fruit salad and an orange juice. It was a lot, especially when he usually didn't eat breakfast, but it looked so good that he couldn't resist.

"Do you prefer tea or coffee?" Hannibal asked.

"Coffee, please."

Reid was surprised at how delicious the breakfast was despite how simple it was, especially the meat, all perfectly seasoned and at its point.

"You're a good cook," he said, eating the last piece of ham.

Hannibal smiled, but didn't even look at him.

When he finished breakfast, leaving almost no crumb, his host accompanied him to the door.

"Goodbye and um... thank you for..."

"Don't mention it, please. I assure you, it has been a real pleasure. I hope we'll see each other again, Spencer." His polite smile was a little disconcerting, as if he'd thanked him for taking care of his dog or something. But the memory of his passionate face that night overlapped in his mind and Reid blushed once more before leaving the house.

 

" _It is natural for the mind to believe and for the will to love; so that, for want of true objects, they must attach themselves to false_." Blaise Pascal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any mistake. Any beta is welcome (u_u')


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